thirty feet to her right, in line with the kitchen window.
She drew closer, scenting the murk of decay, heard the buzzing of the flies. A furry pile, red and slick. She recognized the cottontail of a rabbit, the body skinned, turned inside out. Poor beast. There was a thin line of wire digging deep into the animal’s neck, the ends wrapped around each other like a twisty tie on a loaf of bread.
She felt exposed, her T-shirt too thin, and she rubbed her arms up and down for warmth. She wasn’t an idiot, knew this was a message. The who wasn’t the important question, she assumed it was from her nocturnal stalker. Why she was being targeted, that’s what she wanted to know. Was this the work of the Pretender? He seemed too subtle for gross displays, but perhaps they’d misread him.
She didn’t want to touch the carcass. She needed to secure it in some way, keep it intact and safe from the multitudes of predators that would surely come to scavenge. Preserve the integrity of the message so a tech could come collect it as evidence. She went around the side of the house. The lid from the trashcan wouldn’t work, it was too flat. There was an empty flowerpot, a good-sized one that held a dead hydrangea. Perfect. She dumped the flower and the dirt onto the ground, then went back to the dead rabbit, carefully placing the pot over the body. That should keep for an hour or so.
Feeling eyes on her from every corner, Taylor left the makeshift shrine in the yard and went back inside. Her morning’s peace shattered, she abandoned the cup of tea on the counter, dressed quickly and headed into the office.
There were news vans lining the streets in front of the CJC, receiver satellites pointed toward the heavens. Taylor decided to park in the adjacent lot so she wouldn’t have to run the media gauntlet. She walked the cement ramp, spiraling down toward the street, her boot heels echoing with each step. The repetition calmed her, the pattern resonating through her mind.
She managed to slip in the side door unnoticed. The building itself was humming, noisy, aware. She stopped for a Diet Coke, feeding her dollar into the machine, the can dropping with a clatter. Normally the noise thundered through the halls; today it was barely heard. She entered the Homicide office, saw Lincoln Ross sitting with one butt cheek on the edge of his desk, holding court. It looked like half of headquarters had jammed into Homicide.
A few people acknowledged Taylor, polite “Loot’s” and “Morning, LT.” She nodded back, caught Lincoln’s eye.
His face lit up when he saw Taylor. He jumped off the desk and greeted her with a hug. She hugged him back, hard, thrilled that he was out and obviously okay. She stepped back and took him in. More than okay. Lincoln had a gap-toothed smile that spread from ear to ear. His new look made him seem vaguely like a pirate-bald head, curly beard, eyes flashing with charm and intelligence. Toss him a cutlass and he’d be ready to rapier his way through downtown Nashville.
“Girl, you look great. Whatcha been doing while I’ve been away? You and the fed have a good trip?”
“It’s damn good to see you, Linc. First things first. What’s happening?”
He smirked and waggled his eyebrows. “I got Terrence Norton for you, all tied up with a pretty little bow.”
They bumped knuckles, her generation’s version of a high five. “Really? That’s great news, Lincoln. But why is every newsie in town camped on our doorstep?”
“Got his boss, too.” He said it with such nonchalance that Taylor instinctively knew it was someone visible that no one would ever expect.
“Okay, you’ve got me. Who’s been running this train?”
“Our very own Sidney Edgar.”
She drew back in surprise. “Kong?”
“Yup.”
“Sidney Edgar, wide receiver for the Tennessee Titans. You are shitting me.”
Sidney “King-Kong” Edgar had been a first round draft pick, a rainmaker for the Titans, a young man out of Atlanta who had more brawn than brains. He was six foot four inches of lean, hard muscle, devastatingly dangerous when his hands got within five feet of the pigskin, and a gangster thug to boot. Since he joined the team, Kong had rushed for over one thousand yards and been arrested no less than eight times, always skirting the edge of felony territory. He ran with a bad crowd, a posse of ruffians who traveled between Nashville and Atlanta, lawless men who were regularly picked up for weapons and drug-related charges.
Though as far as Taylor knew, they’d never been connected to Terrence Norton’s gang. She said that, and Lincoln nodded.
“We didn’t know that either until last night. I have to say, I can act. After Sunday night…” He gave her a meaningful look she understood immediately. He’d smoked crack with them, so they’d accepted him.
“Anyway, my CI told me the big dog was coming in. He very kindly left his cell phone on so I could hear the deal being made, and I called in the cavalry. It was too sweet. Caught Kong and Terrence Norton with their hands full of crack baggies.”
Lincoln was obviously still riding the adrenal train. Taylor thought he was probably putting a good face on the situation; she knew it must have been dicey, moment-to-moment danger.
In that inevitable way with men who’d had street violence bred into them before they were weaned, Edgar had always seemed a little too close to the edge. It was a sad thing. So many of those boys pulled themselves up by the bootstraps, got straight, made something positive happen. And some were just a little too weak, too easily seduced by the illusion of power.
Lincoln was wrapping up his tale. “We brought him in, got him processed. King Kong and Terrence, plus fifteen others, will be arraigned this morning. That’s what the news is here to see.”
Taylor squeezed his arm. “Have you been debriefed?” When he nodded, she said, “You take the rest of the day off. Go get some rest. You must be completely exhausted.”
“You sure, LT? I hear you’ve got some stuff on your plate.”
“I’m sure, Lincoln. Whenever you’re ready, no rush. But yeah, I need you sharp, so you go do what you need to do to get yourself back in the real world. We’ll pick up with you tomorrow. Deal?”
“Deal, Loot. Thanks.”
She left him to his adoring crowd and went into her office. Marcus Wade joined her after a few minutes.
“Morning, Marcus. How’d in-service go?”
“I still have a badge, and a gun. My fifth day is scheduled for June.” He rolled his eyes. In-service, while required, was generally considered one of the most boring weeks out of the year. Cop school, four days of repetition of items they already knew by heart. Inexplicably, the gun qualifications came a few months later, a single day of shooting to requalify.
“Mine is too, I think. We must be on the same testing day. Well, that’s good news. Fitz bring you up to speed on the Corinne Wolff murder?” He nodded. “Good. I want you on that case, but I need you to do something for me first.”
She leaned over, spoke quietly so no one enjoying the Lincoln Parade could accidentally overhear.
“I met someone last night who I think may have something shady going on. I’d like you to do a quick run- through of his background. Anything and everything you can find on the guy, okay?”
“No problem, LT. What’s his name?”
“Tony Gorman. I’d assume the full name is Anthony. I don’t have much more than that, and it’s a generic name, but if you pull the DMV records, I can ID him. Then you can dive in, see what his story is.”
“I assume I’m doing this quietly.”
“You got it, puppy. He’s tied-in somewhere, was at a charity dinner last night, so he’s got some money. I didn’t recognize him, but he knew me. Only he called me Tawny. When I challenged him, he thought I was being coy. And that makes me uncomfortable.”
“Tawny? That sounds like-”
Taylor blushed. “Exactly. And that’s about how he treated me. Look at this.” She shrugged out of her cotton sweater, pulling her right arm out to show the underside of her bicep. There were four distinct round bruises. Marcus’s eyebrows disappeared beneath the shock of bushy brown hair that flopped over his forehead.
“Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“I thought about it, but if he was truly mistaking me for someone else, I had no cause. He was just an overzealous jerk. Not a prison offense, you know? But he won’t forget meeting me anytime soon. I got him in a
